


Cake

by bugsuit



Series: 100 Prompts - Archer [3]
Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Cake, Drugs, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 06:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5858752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugsuit/pseuds/bugsuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You all just want an excuse to eat cake, don’t you.”<br/>“What tipped you off?”</p><p>The gang bakes a goddamn cake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cake

“Well, it's gotta be boozy.”

“Obviously. I doubt she’d even bother tasting it if it wasn’t.” Reminded about his half-empty glass, Archer swiped the bottle of scotch off the desk and topped it up, ignoring the disdainful look he earned from Cyril.

The accountant yet another tab of baking sites and tried not to make a comment about Cheryl’s morning breath as she hung around his shoulders like a dozy scarf. She’d slept in the hidden spa again, like most of them had done at some point or other. Cyril had half a mind to buy, like, a _million_ spare toothbrushes to put in there. “Look, what about this one?”

“White Russian cupcakes? Damn, _I_ would.”

“But Mother _wouldn’t, Pam,”_ snapped Archer. “Come _on,_ Cyril, why are you wasting your time looking at baby time cupcakes? We’re talking _cake._ Singular. Now find me a big, chocolatey bastard with like ten creamy toppings and... preferably cheap and easy. It can’t be that hard.”

“No one’s gonna touch that?” muttered Ray, smirking when Archer shot him a venomous look over his shoulder.

Cyril sighed and leaned in to scour the search results again, and this time raised his head with a little more confidence. “Okay, I think I’ve found what you’re looking for.” He adjusted his glasses and examined the page carefully, reading the label out loud. “Chocolate scotch whiskey cake.”

Pam’s eyes widened. “Bullcrap. You made that up.”

“Nope. Look, see?” He carefully span the monitor for the others to see, and Pam leaned closer. “Totally real. How’s that, Archer? Is that one _bastard_ enough for your alcoholic mom? – _ow!”_

Archer whacked him a second time for good measure, and then a third time, and set the newspaper down on the table. “Cyril. Less of the sass. This is the one good deed I’m doing this year, don’t jinx it by being an asshole.”

Pam’s eyes glittered as she scanned the list of ingredients. “…Scotch, almonds, chocolate, more scotch… raisins…”

“Hey, no. If I wanted to know about raisins I’d call Woodhouse. But other than that,” Archer nodded, “yes, it’s… actually a great match. So I’ll leave you guys to that. Get the ingredients, except the raisins, and…” He snapped his fingers. “I’ll be back within the hour, so, hurry it up.”

“Archer-“

“Well, maybe I’ll buy one or two things, like… the scotch. I’ll get the scotch. I don’t trust you guys to get good scotch. Also.” He turned on his way out to drop some final instructions on them all. “Buy way more than the recipe says. I’m not a chef, but if I were to guess… Four times as much of everything,” he concluded.

“Damn it, why do we have to do this?” Pam griped, after Archer had slipped out of the door. “It’s _his_ mom.”

“Right? I can’t even bake, like, a stir-fry,” Cheryl said, less interested in the conversation and more in slumping further over Cyril and in how far south her hands could travel before he noticed.

Cyril slapped them away half-heartedly. “Clue’s in the title, Cheryl.” He turned the monitor back towards himself and skimmed the list, lips moving as he counted through the ingredients, and then glanced up, his right hand already reaching for some paper. “Look, we all know Ms. Archer is… a stingy, callous old tyrant.” There was a murmur of agreement and some nodding. “But think about it! Without her… we wouldn’t have met each other, right?”

Ray hummed disdainfully. “Well, I don’t know about y’all, but I know _I’d_ be better off.”

“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss, y’old claptrap,” Pam scolded him, much to his chagrin. “I think Cyril’s got a point! She may be a tremendous _bitch,_ but do you think anyone else could have held this crapshoot company together for this long? She’s like our very own Iron Lady!”

Ray gave her a blank look. “You’re trying to get _me_ on board with this – by comparing her to _Thatcher,_ of all people?”

“Shut up an’ help divvy up the list. It’s a cake, Ray, not a political statement.”

He held up his hands in disbelief, not even bothering to continue that particular argument. “I’m just sayin’, don’t any of y’all think it’s kinda weird Archer wants to do somethin’ nice for the old hag out of the blue like that?” He scanned the room for acknowledgement, found none, and sighed. “You all just want an excuse to eat cake, don’t you.”

“What tipped you off?” Pam rolled her eyes incredulously, because that was pretty much the most obvious thing she’d ever heard.

 _“Duh,”_ said Cheryl impudently, and tore off a strip of the ingredients list.

 

* * *

 

“Come on. I need your help with this one. It’s only gonna take a few hours, tops.”

A screw squeaked rhythmically as he ignored the interruption and got to work removing a panel, and then he tossed a large, broken wedge of smoking circuitboard out of his way. It slid noisily across the floor and came to rest by Archer’s feet.

“Krieger?”

He was _busy._ And, admittedly, he might also be a little buzzed. This was definitely no time to interrupt him – he’d just gotten into the swing of this particular project, and losing his train of thought now would mess him up for the rest of the day.

“Krieger.”

He heard Archer take a deep breath. Oh, no. No. He was going to disturb the rats.

_“Krie-!”_

_“What!”_ He slid out from under the computer terminal, bracing the skateboard with his foot, and squinted at Archer through the pair of stained goggles he was wearing. Maybe he should finish the sentence. “…Do you _want?_ I’m a little busy.”

Archer laughed lazily, that little high-pitched chuckle he always made when he’d done something exceptionally childish, and stuck his non-drinking hand in his pocket. “Your face is _covered_ in motor oil.”

“Yes,” he said uncertainly, “motor oil.” He didn’t understand why the specifics were so important to everybody. More often than not, it was easier to let them believe what they wanted to believe. “I’m working,” he said, in case that fact hadn’t become apparent to Archer yet.

“First of all, no, you’re _tinkering._ Like Dr. Brown, or Iron Man in any scene where he’s not the focus. You’re not actually doing anything, you’re just poking around under there to look like you’re in the middle of something too complicated to bother explaining. It’s classic misdirection.” Seeing Krieger was about to argue, his expression hardened and he leapt to the next point. “Second of all, _shut up,_ and third of all, you’re going to help me bake a cake so get out of there and put on some pants.”

“I’m not – I’m working on something _very_ important. It’s a…” He glanced up, giving himself an upside-down view of the shadowy underbelly of the computer console, and hummed. “Mmmyeah, I forgot what I was doing. You distracted me.”

Archer stepped back to give him some room to stand up. “Well, you know, you could try not doing science on a cracky attention span.”

 _“LSD,”_ Krieger irritably corrected him, and dusted himself down. All he was wearing was his underwear, but there was blackish fluid all over him and it was starting to itch. Kind of felt interesting. An extra stimulus while he worked, he decided, was a great way of keeping his mind on track. He felt so _focused._ Archer was snapping his fingers in front of his face. “What? What. I’m good.”

“Take your hands off your chest, Krieger. And then go wash them with industrial soap and rubbing alcohol. And then wash them _again,”_ he instructed, “and meet me back here for cake baking 101 in an hour. I have to go buy scotch.”

Krieger watched him leave, the movement making tiny trails on his vision, and stared at the door for a while. He glanced back at the computer console and the skateboard he’d been lying on. “Stupid Archer. What _was_ I doing?” Come to think of it, he didn't even remember when the 'motor oil' had gotten involved. It was a computer, not a car.

He distractedly laid a foot on the skateboard, sliding it from side to side experimentally, and then carefully shifted his weight onto it.

“Fuck it,” he said to himself, distantly acknowledging that he had an hour to burn, and gave himself a wobbly push towards a bank of cameras.

 

* * *

 

 

“Do it again!”

“God damn it, Cheryl, shut up!” Archer waved his hand, coughing loudly through the clouds of smoke, and tried to peer into the cavernous industrial oven.

“What did you _do,_ Archer?”

“I – I cranked the oven right up, _Cyril._ It’s what you do when you’re trying to cook something faster.”

“Why did it _explode?”_ The accountant leaned in to see over Archer’s shoulder, and Archer deliberately chose that moment to straighten up. His skull smacked against Cyril’s nose with a satisfying thud. _“Ow!_ God damn it, Archer!”

“I don’t know why it exploded, Cyril! I’m not a chef but I know for a fact C-4 wasn’t in the goddamn recipe!” He had a hunch, though. “Krieger!”

 _“Yes!”_ The scientist roared the word like it was a triumph and not just to let everybody know where he was, because everybody already knew where he was. He posed on the board and scooted past the kitchenette, his lab coat billowing dramatically behind him.

Archer, reaching the end of his patience, stomped hard on the skateboard. Krieger flailed in shock and slammed face-first into massive refrigerator. “God damn it, Krieger, what did you put in the cake?”

“Inf whffgh _mrh,”_ Krieger objected through the hand that had clamped itself down over his nose and mouth. The other was still clinging to the fridge, steadying him while the world around him straightened itself out a little.

Archer rolled his eyes and grabbed a towel, flapping it around in an attempt to clear the smoke. “Well if it wasn’t you, who the hell was it?” He paused, then slowly turned around. “Pam?”

“Don’t look at me! Ask Little Miss Stir-Fry over there!”

All of the heads in the room turned to stare at Cheryl, who was applying pink frosting to her nose with a teaspoon. Her hair was sticking up all over, partly spiked up with cake mix and partly dusted with flour. “What? Oh my God, it wasn’t me. I just put a penny in there, and you’re supposed to do that with pudding. It’s _tradition.”_

“Christmas pudding, you dumbass.” Pam scolded, slapping the spoon out of her hands. “We’re making a cake!”

“Ugh! You’re ruining my cat make-up. Someone get me more icing.”

Archer slowly, painstakingly slid the entire middle shelf out of the oven. It had turned black and the remnants of what had once been a cake had evolved upwards and outwards into a disturbing lumpy mass.

“In five seconds I’m going to check how much self-raising is left in the bag,” he said in a low voice. “And then I’m going to check who has the most flour on their hands right now. And then, depending on how those two investigations go, there may or may not be one less person in the room in six seconds.”

“Maybe it’s just the oven, or something. Seriously, it looks like one you’d use to _burn bodies._ Why are we even doin’ this here an’ not in a real kitchen?” Ray moaned, discreetly reaching for one of the several backup bottles of scotch.

“Because the lab is the only place big enough for the scale of cake we’re making. And also because Krieger knows cooking,” Archer added as an afterthought, and Ray coughed back the scotch that flew up his nose. “No, really. He can, like, _sense_ ingredients. It’s crazy. Watch.” He lifted the warped black mass and held it out.

Krieger eyed it dubiously for a moment, then reached out with a spare hand and snapped off a solidified drippy bit from the bottom of the tray. He stuck it in his mouth and crunched down on it thoughtfully. “Baki’g ffoda,” he said after a second, “’ot fflouhr.”

“See?”

Krieger took his hand off his face, revealing a steady stream of blood leaking down out of his nose, and held up the bloodied hand to silence Archer for a moment longer. He shifted the crumb in his mouth and then spat it into the sink along with a red spatter. “Also: it doesn’t need that much sugar, if you’re going to put that much scotch in it.”

Archer snickered incredulously. “Okay, you all heard him. Start mixing up a new batch. And remember, that’s two noses I’ve broken today, so don’t fuck up this one or that number is gonna increase.”

“I don’t think they’re _broken,”_ Cyril hazarded. “Just damaged, thankfully.”

_“Nobody asked, Cyril!”_

 

* * *

 

They’d let Krieger do it, in the end. Too many cooks apparently spoiled the boozy cake, and anyway the man had a nigh-unnatural grasp of ingredient rationing. The rest of them were slumped around the ‘kitchen’,

“It’s just chemistry,” he’d insisted, about eight times and despite the fact that no one had asked. And then he’d put one foot on the skateboard that was still left underfoot, slid it swiftly out of his way so he could safely access the oven, and it had come to a halt right where Pam’s foot was about to go.

Pam now sat on one of the metal work surfaces, fuming silently while Ray bandaged her head, and glared daggers at the scientist still drumming on the scotch bottles. Each one had a little less in it, mostly due to the fact that everyone kept sneaking drinks, and he was attempting to re-enact a rock solo with twin teaspoons.

“Can you quit drumming? You already gave me a splitting headache.”

“I’m _xylophone-ing,”_ Krieger ground out, more than a little offended, and another drip of blood bubbled out of his nose and landed on the metal work surface. “It’s Xanadu!”

Cyril flashed him a suspicious look from across the room. He’d retreated to a corner to escape the worst of Krieger’s antics, which had previously involved knives before Ray had confiscated them when he wasn’t looking. “How much LSD did you take, exactly? Pretty sure it should have worn off by now.”

Krieger glanced down at the scotch bottles, tapped one as if making sure it was still tuned, and then back up at him. “Do you mean before we started, or… during that bathroom break I took half an hour ago?”

Cyril groaned, but somebody’s watch beeped loudly before he could say anything.

“Ohp! Cake’s done!” Krieger busied himself with the oven and despite their better judgement, the others slid off their counters and pilfered office chairs and clamoured around.

“…Wow. That’s…”

“That actually looks great,” said Pam, and Ray nodded.

“You could probably get drunk just off the fumes this thing’s givin’ off,” he muttered, grabbing a spare towel and helping Krieger to take the thing out of the oven without dropping it. “Smells more like scotch than it does chocolate.”

“Do we get to ice it now?” Cheryl asked hopefully, looming nearby with a chocolate-covered ladle.

Krieger leapt between her and the cake, his eyes wide. “No! We have to wait for it to cool. Do you _want_ the frosting to melt out of shape? Do you _want_ to ruin this for me?”

“Ugh. We’re just gonna wind up eating all of it while we wait.”

“I don’t know about _we,”_ Ray murmured around a mouthful of frosting, and dipped the spoon back in the bowl. “Oh, I am just gonna get so fat. Someone take this away from me before I – hey!”

Cyril shook his head disapprovingly, setting the bowl back in the fridge beside some dubious unlabelled vials, and straddled an office chair in front of it to block it off.

“Listen,” Archer started suddenly, sounding dubious, “it’s already past ten, and I have things to drink and people to see and then maybe seduce, so I figure we can call it here and then come back and ice the stupid thing tomorrow morning. So I’m gonna make sure Krieger locks up, and then...” He glanced over at the German in question, who was now back on the skateboard and scooting around the outskirts of the lab. “…Then I’m taking his key. I don’t want to come back tomorrow and find the one success of this afternoon has been gobbled up by one of you assholes, or-”

“Or that the Pita Predator has struck again!” Pam suggested helpfully. Krieger braked hard with his foot and glared at her.

“-I was going to say the words ‘or worse’ and just leave it at that, but there you go, you opened Schrodinger’s box and made it a possibility we all have to acknowledge.” Archer went and stood by the door, snapping his fingers and leaning against the wall. “Alright, everybody out. One, two, three, _Krieger get your ass over here,_ four, five. Okay. Now give me the key.”

 

* * *

 

The cake, in all its majesty, had been carefully wheeled through the maze of corridors and desks to the main set of offices, on what Krieger insisted was “definitely not a morgue table”.

It now sat in pride of place in the middle of the room, almost glittering in its majesty (and also in its dusting of edible glitter Cheryl had brought with her from home that morning). And when Malory stepped out of the elevator, a bouquet of flowers tucked under her arm, her jaw dropped.

“What the-?”

“Surprise, Mother!” Archer stepped up behind her and walked her into the room with a hand strategically placed on her shoulder. They were shortly followed by the other ISIS employees and their chatter, and he grinned. “See? See that, Mother? That’s a…”

“Chocolate scotch whiskey cake,” Cyril salvaged for him.

“A _chocolate scotch whiskey cake._ For _you,_ Mother.”

Malory gaped. “But I-“

“It’s for the ISIS anniversary. What are those, flowers? Are they from Lana? Because I’m just saying for the record, this is better.”

And then, while she was still staring with a shellshocked expression at the cake, Archer raised his voice.

“Lana! Lana, come in here!”

“What! What do you-?” Lana entered, and her face fell. _“What the hell is that?”_ Her voice came out in a high-pitched whisper of awe, and Archer’s levels of smugness immediately increased by an improbable percentage.

“I baked it, Lana,” Archer snapped, and behind him, Ray frowned in sudden suspicion. “I baked the whole thing. Uh – with help. Actually, Krieger probably accounts for a lot of it, but it was _my_ idea and _I_ bought the most important ingredient, so… mostly me.”

“It’s not orally contagious,” Krieger offered, implying a lot of things in those four words that no one cared to investigate further.

“Hold on,” Ray muttered quietly, and the others gave him a questioning look. He folded his arms. “I think I know what’s going on here.”

Archer gestured at the cake again, giving Lana a challenging look. “And what did you get? Flowers? You can buy flowers anywhere, Lana, a cake has to be made. Time and energy and blood and sweat and tears goes into it.” He paused. “Actually true. I’m pretty sure Krieger bled into the mix a little bit. But my point being, we all know who the better agent is, Lana!”

“Oh, my God.” Lana shook her head, already catching on. “Ohmygod. You think this will bump you to top agent.”

Malory stepped forwards, humming thoughtfully, and swiped a bony finger through the icing and dabbed it onto her tongue. Her lips smacked twice. “Well, unfortunately for you, Sterling, it won’t do anything of the sort. Because I,” she declared proudly, “am on a diet.”

Archer’s jaw dropped. “What? No!” Behind him, Lana smirked.

“No sugary foods for two weeks, processed or otherwise. My doctor tells me I have high blood sugar.”

“What the _hell,_ Mother!”

“Knew it,” Ray sing-songed, and closed in on the cake. “Y’all want some?”

“What? No, Ray, don’t eat that! _Mother, what the shit!”_ Archer followed her through the office, still complaining. “Mother! I baked that for you! That means I’m better than Lana at _literally everything_ – including anniversary gifts!”

“The ISIS anniversary was three days ago,” Malory’s voice snapped from somewhere in the direction of her office. “And Lana didn’t get me anything, because Lana understands professionalism does not involve buttering me up like a teacher’s pet!”

Lana snorted and went to stand in the circle of ISIS employees that had closed in around the cake. “He got all of you guys in on this? Seriously? _None_ of you thought this was weird?”

“You know, I _did,”_ Ray said thoughtfully, picking up the knife that had been left on the edge of the tray, “until I realised it’d end with a huge-ass cake in the middle of ISIS headquarters.” He brought the knife down slowly, and it gave a faint but satisfying _crack_ as it broke through the thick layer of frosting, and he shuddered theatrically. “Ugh, listen to that.”

Pam made a suggestive noise and wrested the knife from his hand. _“Give_ me that, you tease!”

“Ow! Careful with those vices!”

“Oh my God, _yes,_ knife fight!” Cheryl cheered. “Stab each other! _Fight for your prize, peons!”_

Lana gave a long-suffering sigh and expertly disarmed Pam with one deft movement. “Okay, clearly you’ve all turned into literal hyenas, so I’d better do this. Krieger?”

“What?” He looked uncomfortable. “No, no, no. That serum hasn’t begun its human trials yet.”

“Ew. I meant do you want some cake? Archer pretty much credited you for the whole thing, sooo...”

“Oh.” He relaxed, eyed the cake for a second, and then nodded. “Then, yes. I should probably try it first, anyway. I can’t be sure, but I don’t think I was as careful as I should have been with the ingredients...”

Cyril frowned. “You think we overdid it on the baking soda again?”

“Also, yes,” Krieger nodded, “but I was talking about the fact that some of my _breath strips_ are missing.” He bunny-eared his fingers, and paused. “More than I remember taking.”

The group fell silent for a while, everyone eyeing up the glistening cake with varying degrees of reservation, suspicion, and hunger.

Pam eventually shrugged, and the next word out of her mouth was what everyone was thinking.

_“Eh.”_

Lana brought the knife down.

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say here except that I'm a little sorry for smearing gratuitous drug references all over these fics, and also, where the damn Archer fandom at?? It is a morgue up in here and I am throwing a poorly-written and non-proofread drunken party of one. I expect big things of y'all in March, people. B^J


End file.
